


Red Sun Rising

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Bela Talbot, Demon Dean Winchester, Endgame Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor demon!Dean/demon!Bela, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <pre><i>
red sun rising, drown without inhaling; within the dark holds hard.
red sun rising, curtain falling; higher than hope my cure lies.</i>
</pre>
<p>In the immediate aftermath of Dean's death, Sam and Castiel have to deal with the crippling blow of his unexplained disappearance. Little do they know, a new guard of Knights is rising in hell; and when an old acquaintance gets into the game, some hell is sure to be raised, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title hesitantly taken from [this Nightwish song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjH0ILCBf3M). (I suck at titles that don't come from lyrics, okay?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness awakens, sending tendrils to spiral into his limbs and behind his eyes, slowly at first, so slowly, an unfaithful lover’s poisonous caress– and then all at once, like rockets fired by two kids in an empty field. The darkness takes hold, latching tightly, and the darkness breathes with him, and he  _is_  the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [ethicalmadness](http://ethicalmadness.tumblr.com) for betaing. <3 All remaining mistakes are mine.

 

Dean Winchester wakes up.

Dean Winchester wakes up, and feels nothing.

For a few infinite moments  _nothing_  is all there is; a thick, glassy  _nothing_ , void space swirling around the newly-pulsing core of darkness at the center of him.

Then his fingers close across the First Blade placed over his heart.

The darkness awakens, sending tendrils to spiral into his limbs and behind his eyes, slowly at first, so slowly, an unfaithful lover’s poisonous caress– and then all at once, like rockets fired by two kids in an empty field. The darkness takes hold, latching tightly, and the darkness breathes with him, and he  _is_  the darkness.

He sits up on the bed and his stomach churns hungrily in time to the pulse of the new dark thing inside his chest. Dean wants  _life._ He wants to be out of this confining room with all its useless trinkets, wants to go where life is bustling and bubbling, where people are laughing and crying and fighting and fucking and worrying about their petty minuscule problems, and he wants to breathe it in. He wants, he realizes, to grasp life in his fists, and  _crush_  it until there’s nothing left, only blood spilling over his hands like pomegranate juice.

He smiles.

There’s someone in the room with him, he realizes, and his mind supplies a foggy image of long hair and a gangly frame– but no, the voice that is lingering in his ears like the aftermath of a fever dream is different from Sam’s: it’s low and insidious, soothing and stirring at the same time.

_Let’s go take a howl at that moon._

Crowley approaches the bed slowly. Dean remembers distantly that he should feel anger or fear, suspicion at the very least. He feels none of that and can’t bring himself to care. He doesn’t hate Crowley anymore. He doesn’t  _like_  Crowley, either. But Crowley helped him find the Blade. Crowley brought this power to him. And while Dean is aware, on some level, that Crowley never does anything without an ulterior motive or twenty, he just doesn’t  _care._ So what if Crowley wants to use him? Dean has been a tool for as long as he can remember, an instrument for others to wield when it was convenient, and by now, he doesn’t give a  _damn_  who has a go at his strings.

Crowley gave him the Blade and the power, and Dean likes those very much; Dean also wants to  _kill_ something really really soon, and he has a feeling Crowley can arrange that for him. Crowley told him he was  _worthy,_ after all, helped him out when nobody else had two words to spare for him, even came to him after Sam and Cas had locked him in the dungeon. So really, who fucking cares what his agenda is? Hell, at least Crowley _has_  a use for him. Apparently nobody else does. Dean likes being useful, and he has a feeling he’s going to  _love_  whatever lies in store.

“Come, Dean.” Crowley has a hand held out, his lips tilted in a smirk full of promise. “We’ve got work to do.”

Dean Winchester goes.

 

* * *

 

 

When Sam hears the familiar rumble of the Impala coming to life in the garage, his heart flips right into his throat. His first rational thought is that he’s sleep-deprived, grief-stricken, and more than a little drunk; imagining things, really– but it quickly gets drowned out by a lifelong instinct to be on guard for all danger.

 

Just because Dean is not driving the Impala -  _Dean will never again be driving the Impala,_ his mind supplies cruelly, in a voice staggeringly reminiscent of Lucifer’s – doesn’t mean nobody else  _could._  The last thing he needs is an intruder in the bunker.

Sam glances around, a low sigh draining out of him. Crowley hasn’t showed up, and he’s most likely not going to show– and who even knew that demons could resist summons, but Sam guesses that being the recently reinstated King of Hell has its perks. Not that it matters. Summoning spell or not, Sam is going to find him, and when he does, Crowley is going to wish he’d never mentioned Cain or the Blade to Dean.

He kicks over the bowl with the spell ingredient – a meager relief for the white-hot  _anger_  surging inside him at the thought of Crowley – and heads for the garage. When he gets there he finds it quiet, immersed in darkness. Sam shakes his head, the small motion self-deprecating; he really must’ve imagined the Impala roaring to life.  _Wishful thinking,_ his brain points out helpfully,  _or maybe you’re just going insane again._

But there’s still that hunter’s instinct, that sense of something not being  _right_ , the need to check for hidden threats before he can rest easy. Sam turns on the lights, and even before they come on completely, he can see a glaringly empty spot where he knows he had parked the Impala. His heart skyrockets up in his throat again, and he leaves the garage, walking backwards, slowly, then turning on his heel and running, his mind berating him every step of the way -  _stupid, stupid, it’s so stupid, how could it even be him_ \- until comes to a stop in front of Dean’s room. The door is closed.  _Closed,_ and he’d left it  _open_. Sam’s heart plummets from mouth to stomach at terminal velocity.

He opens the door, too shaken to even think about getting a weapon. The door swings on gently creaking hinges to reveal the bed, blood still crusted on the sheets– the sheets that still carry the imprint of his brother’s body. The bed is empty.

Sam Winchester’s world crashes down on his head.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time since that disastrous night shortly before they took down the Whore of Babylon, Castiel is drunk.

He is not proud of it. He had not planned it, either; an hour ago he was on his way to Lebanon, Kansas, tank full and driving like a maniac, phone held to his ear as he called Sam’s number time and time again, only ever reaching his voicemail. And then he had accidentally dialled Dean, more instinct than anything else, his thumb tapping the number from muscle memory, one ring, two rings, three rings and  _This is Dean’s other, other cell, so you must know what to do,_ and Castiel had just  _broken._

Pulled over to the side of the road, with his head clasped between his hands and ragged breaths tearing painfully through his lungs, Castiel had been all but bowled over by the intensity of his grief; for a long, absurd moment, he was sure he was crying, before he’d remembered that angels could not cry. He felt nauseous, constricted, his vessel - his  _body_  - shaking like a leaf, and he knew there would be no relief; because angels don’t cry, angels don’t throw up, angels don’t pass out from emotional exhaustion.

_I just want to be an angel,_ he’d told Hannah earlier, mistaking his numbness for the angelic detachment he knew so well; but he hadn’t stayed numb for long.

Hunched over in the driver’s seat, Castiel hurt as never before. He remembered when he had first taken a vessel to go meet the Righteous Man, how Jimmy’s body had been filled to bursting, the small human shape barely able to contain Castiel’s might. How was it possible for the same body to feel so empty now? It felt like he was being peeled open, loneliness filtering through the cracks, until, unable to bear it, he had gotten out of the car and started walking, then running, trying to fill his lungs with oxygen to replace the feeling of drowning.

His steps had brought him, breathless and dishevelled, to a gas station with a liquor section. Dizzy and sweaty, he had bought as much of it as he could carry back to the car, and here he is now, leaning against the tan metal frame, his trenchcoat folded into a pillow for his heavy head. It took a long time to get drunk - not like when he was human and a beer was enough to give him that pleasant buzzing, which Dean had teased him for - but not as long as it should, not as long as it used to, not even when he was almost fallen and Ellen had challenged him to a drinking contest. He’s so  _weak_ now, nearly human and yet  _not._

Josiah’s words ring in his ears still:  _I look at you, and I don’t see an angel staring back at me_. Castiel can’t fault him for it, as much as it had stung. It’s the truth. His angelic Grace has been destroyed, and whatever he can steal or conjure up with spells, it will not be the same– it will  _never_  be the same. He’ll always be half an angel, a mockery of one– and yet he’s not human either, and he feels the loss keenly. He won’t be able to find solace in sleep, in food, and case in point, he can’t even get drunk enough to pass out; there’s just  _this,_ this sense of confusion, mouth dry and cotton in his head, all his reflexes sluggish and tainted. Everything’s been dulled but the pain.

Which is just as well, because the pain is all he has right now, the only thing that Castiel can properly call  _his._  That, a beat-up car, an empty bottle of bourbon, and a trenchcoat that somehow is all  _wrong._  Everything about him is wrong, and he’s lost the only person that was able to make him feel  _right._

More than anything else, Castiel wants to go home; but he can’t, because his home was taken from him.

His home had green eyes, an easy smile, and a bottomless heart that no longer beats.

 

* * *

 

Dean swirls the scotch in the crystal tumbler that was handed to him, the amber liquid hypnotic in its own right. Upon taking a swig, he thinks to himself that Hell has a  _damn good selection of spirits_ , and almost chuckles at his own pun.

“Like it? I have it personally imported from Scotland. Only the best for my new right hand.” Crowley smirks, reclining languidly in his leather chair.

Dean scratches absently at a spot of dried blood behind his ear. In his elation at killing that lower demon from Crowley’s dungeons, he had gotten a bit carried away with the carnage.

“Gotta say, it’s a damn sight better than the last time I was here. My bad for not booking a room in the VIP zone, I guess.”

Crowley grimaces at the deadpan statement. “Ah, yes. Alastair and I had… very different ideas in matters of décor. Not to mention Lilith– so  _tacky,_ so garish, all those entrails and demonic children everywhere. I prefer to run a smooth operation.”

Dean toasts to that, not that he genuinely cares for the outlook of Hell. He’ll have time to get to know it. So far, what he’s seen has been Crowley’s office, all dark wood and bourbon decanters and supple leather cushions, and he doesn’t exactly mind. Leaning back in his own armchair, he knocks back the rest of the liquor. He doesn’t ask questions; doesn’t have to. He knows Crowley will get there in his own time, and Dean is in no rush. The itch under his skin is at bay for the time being, and by the time he craves a kill again, he’s confident Crowley will provide.

He doesn’t have to wait long, either, because Crowley rests his elbows on the desk between them and peers at him, his expression sliding seamlessly from relaxed to calculating.

“Now, my dear boy. Let’s talk  _business._ ”

 


	2. The New Guard Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean looks up, his eyes suddenly focused and intent. “You askin’ me to be your hit-man?”  
> A slow smirk rolls out on Crowley’s lips. “You want to kill things. I’m giving you _names_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warnings:** graphic descriptions of (the aftermath of) torture; body horror; implied sexual abuse (re: Bela's past); mysoginistic slurs (as seen in the show, basically).
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** Beta'd by the ever-lovely [ethicalmadness](ethicalmadness.tumblr.com). All remaining mistakes are mine.

“So, Crowley. What exactly _do_ you want from me?”

Crowley takes stock of the sight in front of him. Dean is reclining in the leather armchair opposite his like he was born to luxury and old money instead of genetic alcoholism and homelessness, which is… interesting. Amusing. Potentially dangerous. Crowley purses his lips, and pours himself another dose of whiskey.

“A simple enough job, really,” he smirks. “Security detail.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking black in surprised interest. “You want me to be your _bodyguard?_ ”

Crowley scoffs. “Please, Dean. We’ve known each other a while. I’m pretty good at fending for myself.”

“Yeah, sure you are,” Dean drawls, “Except when you’re getting captured and smacking up with human blood.”

“I told you that little problem was _fixed_ ,” Crowley cuts in, pleasant but firm. “It is not for _myself_ that I require security, thank you very much. No, it’s my kingdom that could use a little… tough love, shall we say.”

“I’m listening,” Dean comments, while looking for all the world as though he isn’t, more interested in running the edge of the First Blade under his fingernails (disgusting overgrown teenager that he is, Crowley thinks, but keeps that one to himself).

“Since regaining control of Hell, my position has been… shall we say, a little _wobbly._ Of course I’m setting everything to rights, but there are still a few… _confounded_ Abaddon loyalists. And then of course there’s the slackers, the opportunists, those who would rather cheat humans out of a deal and harvest the souls for themselves. Now, you understand, I can’t have that. If I am to fully restore world-order-- well, Hell-order, rather, I can’t be running around chasing down all the rogue demons and freelancers that have got anarchy notions in their heads. And that, my friend, is where _you_ come in.”

Dean looks up at that, his eyes suddenly focused and intent. “You askin’ me to be your hit-man?”

A slow smirk rolls out on Crowley’s lips. “You want to kill things. I’m giving you _names._ ”

There’s a charged pause as Dean scratches his stubble pensively-- but the lustful light in his eyes betrays him.

“I’m in,” he says, and Crowley politely feigns surprised pleasure.

“Well, I’m really glad we could see eye-to-eye on this. Of course, you still have a few things to learn about your powers… things I’d be more than happy to teach you.” He suppresses another smirk at the poorly-concealed interest on Dean’s face. _This is how you reel them in: promise and deliver-- on your own terms._

“Like what?”

“Oh, a bit of everything, really. Teleporting, possession, telekinesis, demonic phone-calls-- the works. It’s not rocket science, but it takes some getting used to. For some it’s easier than for others,” he modestly looks to the side. Dean nods, looking excited and perhaps - carefully hidden under layers of bravado and euphoria - a little overwhelmed. _Everything according to plan._

“Of course, I’m going to need some people.”

_Wait, what?_

“Beg pardon?” Crowley looks up to see Dean leaning forwards in the chair, planting his elbows on the desk between them, a steady, calculating look in his eyes.

“Oh, c’mon, Crowley. You want me to go all _The Professional_ on Hell, I gotta have some backup. I can’t exactly take care of all demon problems the world over on my own-- I mean I’m flattered, really, but even I am not _that_ good.”

Crowley frowns, because it’s actually not a _terrible_ point. “No, obviously not. You can have some… minions, naturally. I will consider candidates and--”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Dean’s drumming his fingers on the table impatiently and Crowley is rapidly growing wary of the situation.

“Why, what?”

“I used to _hunt demons_ for a living, Crowley. You expect most of them will be glad to see my face around here?” Dean shakes his head. “Sorry, but I’m gonna want to pick the mooks myself.”   


Crowley hesitates. He doesn’t like this, not one _bit._ He hadn’t expected Dean to take the initiative so damn quickly; granted, the Winchesters are basically developmentally stuck in teenage rebellion, but he was hoping the ‘imprinting duckling’ phase would last a few days at least.

Still, he cannot afford to antagonize Dean now. Not with the Mark pumping adrenaline and anger at full strength into his newly-powered body. Crowley’s good, he’s _really_ good, but right now? Dean is _better._ He just doesn’t quite know it yet, and Crowley intends to keep it that way for as long as possible.

No, he has to build trust first, establish a good business relationship. Make sure Dean is busy and all kill-happy, caught up in the experience of his new demonic life, and use that time to stock up on some security of his own, in case Demon Squirrel decides to go nuclear. Which means that at least for now, the child prodigy gets whatever he wants.

“Of course. You’ll be able to take your pick of the crop.” Crowley says, voice carefully calm and expression amiable.

It’s a little harder to remain impassible at Dean’s next words.

“I’ll also need a second in command, obviously.”

Crowley’s double-take must be bloody near-comical, judging by the inelegant snort Dean makes a very poor effort to muffle. He sits up and stares Dean down, eyes going narrow with irritation.

“You’re _joking._ ”

Dean shrugs, unimpressed. “Cain had one.”

“Yes, Cain had one, and it was bloody _Abaddon._ ” Crowley sputters. “Have we all forgotten how _that_ turned out?”

Dean just looks back at him calmly, cocksure, and Crowley has to fight the momentary impulse to slam him against a wall-- in the non-sexy, rather _hurtful_ way.

“You gotta admit, she was a hell of a fighter,” Dean comments, and then chuckles, far too amused at his own horrendous pun.

“The tart tried to _overthrow my kingdom_!”

“And I shoved a blade into her belly.” Dean isn’t smiling anymore, leaning forward a fraction, his eyes bearing into Crowley’s. “What do you think I would do to someone who tried that trick _now_?”

Crowley has to stop himself from swallowing. It took a year of hard work to ultimately turn Dean into his own personal attack dog, and the thing about dogs is they can sense your fear.

And oh, Crowley is afraid. 

He’d be a fool not to be, and if there’s anything Fergus Crowley is _not,_ is a bloody fool. Underestimating the Winchesters has always been a sure ticket to oblivion-- and that was when they were mere humans. Now, however… whatever Dean has become due to the mark, it is more powerful than Crowley cares to consider. _What do you think I would do,_ Dean had asked, and Crowley doesn’t know. That’s exactly the problem: _he doesn’t know._ Doesn’t know what in the hell Dean is, what his powers are, how far he’s willing to go. How loyal is he going to be? Does he even know what loyalty _is_ anymore? Is there any room in his newly blackened little soul for Moose and Feathers?

Crowley doesn’t know -- has no way of knowing unless he asks Dean outright, which would mean displaying his weakness and his doubts -- so he’s stuck with _this_ , with the vague sense of dread tickling at the back of his throat like bile. Crowley may be powerful, smart, and the best bloody player of them all. But is he strong enough to take on a Knight of Hell? Now _that_ he knows the answer to, and it’s precisely why he’d chosen to outmaneuver Abaddon instead of taking the violent route. Dean had been so very useful in that respect. If there’s one thing you can trust a Winchester with, it’s violence.

They stare at each other for a few long moments, Crowley careful to mask his thoughts, Dean unaffected by any such worry. Right now, they both know, he has no reason to worry about _anything._ Crowley’s jaw clenches momentarily, before he rolls out the words as smoothly as he can.

“And do we have a candidate in mind?”

Dean smirks. “Oh yeah. I know just the person for the job.”

* * *

“What do you mean _gone_?”

“There aren’t many other ways I can say this, Cas!” Sam sounds as agitated as Castiel is starting to feel.

“Alright, just calm--”

“Are you _drunk_?”

“No. …Yes.” Castiel bites his lip. “Are _you_?”

There’s a small pause over the line. “Uh, yeah, kinda. Before. But I sobered up real fast, I’m telling you. Man, if-- _when_ I find whatever took him…”

Castiel stumbles to his feet, his stomach swirling unpleasantly. He knows it has much more to do with the news than with the liquor.

“Sam. Hold on. I’m driving over there right now.”

A huff of breath. “Okay. Hurry up, man, I’m losing it here.”

Castiel tucks the phone under his ear, fumbling the keys into the ignition one-handed as he slams the door shut.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates for a moment, but then the words rush out of their own accord. “What if _nothing_ took him?”

“What are you talking about?” Sam’s voice is different, alarm creeping into it.

“Well, what would even want to steal a corpse?”

“Ghouls? Necromancers?” They can both hear there’s no conviction in Sam’s suggestions. “I don’t know, Cas, but if he wasn’t taken, then…”

Castiel hesitates again, the weight on his chest too heavy to bear contemplating. “There are… stories. About Cain. About the Mark. I’ll tell you when I’m there.”

“Cas, wait--”

“I’ll see you soon, Sam.” Castiel hangs up, heart pounding, and utterly _floors_ it.

 

* * *

 

All in all, Hell is more pleasant than Dean remembered.

Well, no, that’s a dirty lie. The place is still fugly as a nightmare. But not being on a rack, under Alastair’s careful ministrations, makes the experience so much more enjoyable.

“I thought you’d done away with all that ‘fire and brimstone’ crap,” he’d commented to Crowley earlier, before he had to excuse himself to attend to some Kingly business.

“Oh, you know how it is. Construction work always takes forever. The new sections, those are all me. All the souls harvested since I gained the throne are sent straight there,” he’d explained, looking pleased with himself. “Previous occupants, however, have sometimes been stuck in their earlier… _accommodations_ , so to speak.” He’d shrugged. “A bit of folklore never hurt anyone, right?”

Right, Dean thinks, taking in the screaming and the smell of burning guts. In a way, the yelling is strangely musical. He remembers being able to draw out those same sounds, with a skill and artistry Alastair was proud of. _Always been damn good with a blade_ , he thinks, fingers drumming against the one hanging at his side.

It takes some time to learn to navigate the twists and turns of the place, but he doesn’t mind. He’s got all the time in the world. He hums to himself, the starting chords of _Enter Sandman_ a familiar tune as he goes over what Crowley had told him during his little ‘tutorial’. Summonings, teleportation, blood spells… it’s quite a lot to take in, but then Dean’s always been a fast learner.

He casually steps to the left to avoid a gush of bile from one of the inmates, his boot crunching down a crumbling hipbone. Dean knows all too well that hipbone will be back in someone else’s body tomorrow, ready to start over and over and over again. That’s just the way it is down here; actually, he wouldn’t mind lending a hand-- but first things first.

Crowley hadn’t been overjoyed at the prospect of Dean having minions of his own, at first, but he’d warmed to the idea.

“Think about it, Crowley,” Dean had said, promise in his voice. “You think a fighter like me can help with holding down your kingdom, then hell, what could you do with more fighters? I mean _real_ fighters, not just demon mooks flailing their limbs around. Granted, they won’t be as good as I am,” he’d shrugged faux-modestly, “but I could train them. Send them on to the lesser jobs. How’s that sound? A whole new guard of Knights, all at your command. Well, _my_ command, but that’s details. It’d be damn good for the reputation of the place, wouldn’t it?”

Eventually, Crowley had agreed; not that he had a whole lot of other choices, considering, since Dean was the one with the all-killing Blade. But Dean is, weirdly, almost genuinely excited at the idea of training a small demon army. Fighting is what he does best, and _damn_ but he’s good at it. Plus, it’s gonna feel pretty damn great to be the one _giving_ the orders for once.

As for the second-in-command thing, that was purely strategic. A wingman to cut between him and all the bullshit little problems; bureaucracy is very much not Dean’s thing, thank you very much. It definitely, _definitely_ has nothing to do with the fact that it feels sorta weird to be on the field without a partner. For fuck’s sake, Dean’s freaking _thrilled_ not to have a partner anymore. Screw the angst and the worrying and all the other nasty squishy bits of humanity. This, _this_ is what he was born to be. His hand closes around the hilt of the First Blade, and the jolt of power that goes through him is, as always, almost orgasmic.

Dean’s so distracted by his musings that he almost doesn’t notice when he’s reached the corner of hell he was headed to. He stops and takes in the sight before him.

The _thing_ strapped to the torture wheel is barely even a recognizable human soul. Its skinless limbs are scorched and twisted, one leg broken at the knee, a foot missing; one of the eyeballs in the tortured face is veiled and bulging, half out of the socket, but the other one sports a green iris that Dean would recognize anywhere, even before it widens in shocked recognition.

Dean smiles, just an upward tick of his lips. “Hello, Bela.”

 

* * *

 

When Castiel arrives at the bunker (the door, surprisingly, left closed but unlocked), Sam is a flurry of feverish activity. There’s a packed duffel on the table, and an open bag which, Castiel can see, is full of weapons. Sam himself is sitting at the computer, tapping away quickly, squinting at the screen. His face is a stony mask, but all his movements betray impatience. Sam is raring to go, but -- Castiel realises with a sudden pang – he was waiting for him. Was _impatient_ because of him, of how long it took him to get there. There used to be a time when Castiel could just _will_ himself in the presence of the Winchesters, and instantly be there; a time when he was a powerful ally. Now, he is a time bomb, practically human, mildly hung over. It hurts like seams tearing slowly apart inside him.

He doesn’t have to announce his presence, because at that moment Sam looks up and notices him. “Cas,” he smiles, tired, and instantly gets up to stalk towards him and wrap him into a hug. The warm contact is a slight balm on Castiel’s aching insides.

“Sam,” he replies, hugging back. He needs to savor the moment, this brief interlude of warmth and peace, because he knows the theory he’s about to share with Sam will shatter that peace in the worst way. Just thinking about what he’s going to say makes Castiel nauseous, and he tries to hold the words away from himself, take refuge in what’s left of his angelic aloofness.

It’s unsurprisingly futile.

Sam draws back to look at him. “What did you wanna talk about, Cas? What did you mean, you’re not sure Dean was taken?”

Castiel sighs deeply, sitting down at the table. “You’re not going to like it, but we must consider the possibility.”

Sam sits across from him, his face back into its hard set from before. “Tell me.”

Castiel looks up from the table and straight at Sam, his voice measured and inevitable. “There are theories, about the Mark of Cain. About what it did to him.”

He tells the rest of it, what he heard from low-level demons and gossiping angels besides: urban legends whose amount of truth nobody had ever managed to determine.

By the end of it, Sam looks as sick as Castiel feels.

 

* * *

 

Bela -- not Bela, Dean reminds himself, just the soul that _used_ to belong to her -- doesn’t answer Dean’s greeting. Probably, Dean concludes, because her vocal cords have been ripped out one by one. It’s what _he_ would have done, at least.  Her right eye is still staring at him in astonishment even as the optical nerve in the left eyesocket twitches, a tremor wracking the miserable frame tied to the torture wheel.

The demon standing above her, holding what looks like a jagged steak knife, hesitates warily. It’s clear he doesn’t appreciate the interruption, but the Mark of Cain burns bright and angry on Dean’s forearm even - or perhaps especially - in the pits of Hell, and it’s a clear warning: _you don’t wanna mess with me, sparky. This is so very above your paygrade._

“What’s this about?”, the demon asks cautiously. Dean peers at him for a moment: over his true form, insect-like and hideous, he’s wearing the semblance of a middle-aged man, hair gray and sparse, moustache neatly trimmed. Remarkably ordinary, and Dean wonders idly why the demon chose this form.

“I’d say it’s none of your beeswax, but lucky for you, I’m in a good mood. I’ve come to fetch myself a PA,” Dean says in a faux-chipper tone, eyes drawing away from the demon and back to Bela’s form.

“You can’t have her,” the demon barks-- apparently before he can think better of it.

Dean slowly turns around to face him, one eyebrow rising ever so slightly.

“’Scuse me?”

“She sold her soul. She’s here by rights. Hasn’t done her time yet.” The demon tries to cover his obvious fear by standing taller, blade waving around angrily.

Dean purses his lips, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I hear you. That definitely makes sense. But, ah, see-- I don’t care.”

He flicks his wrist and the demon goes stumbling back, a coarse black thread sewing his lips shut as he whimpers in agony. Dean smiles.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes.” He turns to Bela again, taking a step towards the rack.

“ Here’s the deal, sweetheart. You better listen and listen close, ‘cause this offer is only going once. I have been offered an… opening. Security detail for Hell, as it were. ‘Course, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Hell or security, but it looks like there’s going to be plenty of fighting. Many nice options for killing, too. In other words, _fun fun fun_.” He pauses, assessing the sight in front of him. “Now, I seem to remember you were a pretty shrewd little SOB up there. Pain in my ass, don’t get me wrong -- but smart, _damned_ smart. And at the end of the day, I gotta admit, you had style. You see what I’m getting at here, Bela?”

The creature that was Bela shivers in attentiveness. Dean smiles.

“When we parted ways, I thought you were a cold bitch who killed her family for money. You disgusted me. Now? Cold bitch who’ll kill anything is just about what I need, especially one as clever as you. So, this is my offer: work for me. Hell, work _with_ me. I don’t mind sharing, long as you don’t get any wacky… _ideas_ about who’s in charge. Accept the offer, and I’ll let you right off that rack. What do you say?”

The demonic minion makes an abortive movement, as if to rush to the rack and stop the proceedings. Dean doesn’t so much at look at him; a wave of his hand, and the minion is slammed against the bloodied floor only to remain pinned there by an invisible force, whimpering.

“I’m waiting, Bela.”

The figure on the torture wheel twitches once, twice. There’s a croaking sound, like air hissing through a ragged windpipe, and then she nods, shakily. Once again, more decisively.

There’s a dark twinge of satisfaction in the snap of Dean’s fingers that makes Bela’s chains fall off, broken. He holds out a hand, and after a drawn-out moment it’s grasped by flayed fingers. He helps Bela’s tortured soul get up. Her eye darts around frantically, as if she’s unable to believe she’s free. It finally settles on the demon pinned to the floor, and the glint in it speaks of hatred and fear.

The demon is struggling to speak, red in the face, and Dean is just about tired of his antics. He lifts a hand to snap its neck, then, on an almost subconscious impulse, changes his mind, and removes the muting spell instead.

“You can’t have her!” The demon chokes out, shrill and furious. “She’s mine!She’s been a bad, bad girl, and she’s _mine._ She’ll _always_ be mine!”

The Bela-shaped thing shudders in revulsion, and it’s then that Dean -- finally -- makes the connection. There’s something to be said for the aversion he feels for the demon, since it makes even _his_ stomach clench with disgust. Ignoring its outraged squawks, he turns to Bela.

“Look at me. Do you understand what you are signing up for, by being my second in command? You pledge, here and now, to follow my lead. We’ll have work to do, messy, _bloody_ work. And I fully intend to carry it through, and I even more fully intend to _enjoy_ it.  That a problem?”

Dean pauses long enough to acknowledge Bela’s negative headshake.

“Great. Because right now, I’m not playing by anyone’s rules but my own-- and sweetheart, it feels _fantastic_.” He grins, before continuing smoothly, matter-of-factly. “If you accept, you’ll become a demon. Not just a damned soul, a full-out, infernal son of a bitch. Your humanity, whatever you have left, will slowly shrivel up and die. Any problems with that?”

Another headshake-- the movement is juddery, but the glint in Bela’s eyes is determined, steely.

“Good. You’ll change soon enough. We’re going to have a great time, I promise. But just so we’re clear -- you know, simply because you’ve screwed me over so many times before -- I think I should say this.” Dean’s pleasant tone does nothing to conceal the steel in his words. “Once you’re turned, I know you’re going to want to assess the situation. And you might think it’s more advantageous for you to turn tail and try to find a better deal, you know, a more… attractive offer. Perhaps you’ll want to hide under Crowley’s wing, perhaps undersomeone else’s. Might even wanna take off on your own to serve your own interests. That’s kind of your gig, isn’t it?”

He takes a step closer. “I just want you to remember -- to remember _very clearly_ \-- that if you ever even _think_ about stabbing me in the back, I’ll throw you right back in here. And honey, you’ll think your first stint was a _vacation._ Do I make myself clear?”

A pause; then a nod.

“Awesome!” Dean rubs his hands in exaggerated cheerfulness. “Uh, hey, Bela, I got one last question for you,” he quips, darting a quick glance at the demon still pinned to the grimy stone floor. “Is Chuckles over there your father?”

The suffocating air of the pit stands still for a moment. Slowly, Bela nods her head yes. It’s the answer Dean expected, but he feels newly repulsed by the demon -- the man -- regardless. Dean knows, from personal experience, that Hell _gets off_ on inflicting the most horrible pain at all times. With a hundred thousand demons and more at their disposal, there’s a specific reason why Bela’s father would be put in charge of torturing her: either she loved him very much, or she absolutely _hated_ him-- was utterly, consumingly _terrified_ of him.

Dean can tell what the case is. _Looks like I judged you wrong, sweetheart,_ he thinks with an empathy that surprises him. Then he lets out a low, ominous whistle. “Daddy, daddy, daddy. You sick twisted bastard.”

Deliberately slowly -- so that the demon who used to be Bela’s father can see every move -- he takes the First Blade off his belt, twirls it in his hand, offers it to Bela , handle pointed towards her. Without the Mark of Cain she can’t use the Blade’s power, but it’s still a pretty vicious baby, the bone filed razor sharp.

“Welcome to demonhood, darling. Treat yourself.”

Bela’s ravaged mouth curls into a gleeful, bloodied, terrifyingly wide smile. She takes the Blade.

A moment later, the screams of the demon are filling the air around them, and Dean settles in for the show.

 

* * *

 

Sam sits pale across the table, hands white-knuckled where they’re clenched into fists.

“No. It can’t be. You’re not-- he can’t be a demon. Jesus, Cas, not a friggin’ _demon._ ”

Castiel shakes his head, his own heart constricting painfully at the idea. _I rescued him from the pits of damnation. I never wanted this to happen. I would give my life for it not to be true._

“I warned you that you wouldn’t like it, Sam,” he sighs.

They’re both silent for a moment, before Sam presses his lips together, determined. “Doesn’t matter. We can cure him. We _know_ how to cure demons, Cas. I almost did it once with Crowley, and I can do it again.”

Castiel nods, the thought having already occurred to him. He doesn’t want to destroy Sam’s hopes entirely, but he has to lay out all the facts. “But with the Mark...”

Sam stops in his tracks, halfway to getting up. “What?” he asks cautiously.

“Sam… you have to remember, the Mark of Cain makes Dean -- _if_ he is a demon -- an entirely _different_ kind of demon. More powerful than any demon you’ve ever faced, more powerful than _Abaddon_.  There’s no telling whether the cure will work on him.”

Sam swallows. “It will work. It _must._ ” In that moment, he looks incredibly young. Castiel hurts for him.

“I’ll help,” he promises, perhaps needlessly. “But first we have to find Dean. Do you have any leads?”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m looking. I have feelers out for the Impala-- if it shows up on any of the major highways, we should be able to know.”

“That is a good start.” Castiel smiles weakly. It’s not a convincing smile, but then again, Sam’s conviction is far from heartfelt itself. They’re both pretending -- praying -- that the odds will somehow turn in their favor, even if it seems terribly unlikely.

They don’t have a good history with odds and favors.

“Cas?”

Castiel looks up from the table where he’d fixed his eyes, tiredly. He’s always tired these days, and he doesn’t know if it’s his stolen grace fading out or the pain of losing Dean slowly wearing him out from the inside.

“Yes, Sam?”

“What about your grace? Is that-- are you going to be okay now? Did the angels manage to… y’know, fix it?” Sam shifts awkwardly in his seat, with all the air of someone who knows they’re asking a question they won’t like the answer to.

Castiel stares numbly at him, thinking wryly that their lives are somewhat more complicated than other people’s.

“About that. I fear I have some more bad news.”

Sam blinks. Then, wordlessly, he breaks open another bottle of whiskey.

 

* * *

 

Bela stands before Dean where he leans against the torture rack. He’s getting tired of being here, and being so close to Hell’s instruments of torture is bringing back all sorts of unpleasant… _feelings._ Not from using them, hell no, those are the _fun_ memories-- more of being strapped to them, screaming, begging for mercy. He’s not fond of _those._

He surveys the carnage at his feet, and the fresh blood painting Bela’s arms.

“Girl after my own heart,” he muses, a hint of pride in his voice. “You ready to go?”

With a thrum of excitement in the sulfurous air, Bela’s eyes flash black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, here it is! I apologize for the long wait. Sadly, uni stuff had to come first. I really hope to be able to finish this before s10 airs and completely josses my demon!Dean, but hey, I ain't no miracle worker. If you've stuck/will stick with this fic despite my terrible slowness, know that I appreciate you deeply.


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